Ape Lust
by Never-Rebel
Summary: Jess tries, and Chilton accepts. It's all he has to offer her, so he keeps on trying. Begins partway through season one: Jess arrived earlier. Literati.
1. Ease Suck Ray Seam Ann

**Author's Note: **This story takes place in Season One, in a what if scenario in which Jess arrived in Stars Hallow about six months earlier. I think if Jess had gotten there in time... he might have been willing to make some effort, and I want to see how much. (Also, if my writing style varies throughout the story, it's because I'm trying to find what I'm most comfortable with.)

**Chapter One:** Ease Suck Ray Seam Ann

-

"Feelin' pretty smart there, Lurch?"

"Smarter than you, apparently," Dean said, tucking away his B test as he received another smile and a short kiss from Rory. After his comment, she frowned at Dean and glanced back at him, but she left without a word.

Then Jess was in the bookstore, typing on its only computer because Luke didn't own one. He tapped out his final draft of an essay due tomorrow, though technically, since he hadn't written a rough draft, it was a first draft. He paid thirty cents to print the essay (ten cents a page), hid the essay from Luke when he returned to the diner and stuffed the papers into his backpack.

The next day, Jess turned in the essay to his English teacher. For his other academic teachers he had his completed homework out on his desk and his paperback in his back pocket, which he only read at lunch.

When the bell rang to dismiss the last class, Jess flapped his fingers in a wave at Dean, who shook his head slowly. Jess scowled and walked out.

-

"It was like he went just to bug me."

"Dean," Rory said, "I seriously doubt that Jess sat down and did his homework because he thought it would bug you."

"Why else would he suddenly be in school? He skipped the first two weeks of the semester to work at Wal Mart and then today he sat in class and paid attention. I think I might have even seen him taking some notes. That or he was writing on the desk, which is a lot more likely." He took a breath. "He's gonna keep showing up to bug me. And I'm not gonna drop out just because he's there either."

"Good to hear," Rory nodded firmly.

"I might have to switch out of a few classes, but I'm not gonna drop out because of him. That's probably just what he wants."

"Again, doubtful. Okay, so I've gotta go meet my mom at Luke's."

"And I guess I've got homework to do," Dean said.

"That you do."

Dean gave her a quick peck on the lips and left. Rory headed into the diner and dropped her book bag next to the nearest empty table. A moment later there was a mug in front of her being filled up with coffee.

"Ordering now or waitin' on your mom?" Luke asked.

"Waiting on my mom, but some fries would be good while I wait."

"Comin' right up."

As Luke was giving Caesar her order, Jess trudged down the stairs.

"Hey, your shift started forty minutes ago," Luke said, voice raised.

"Huh."

"What the hell were you doing for forty minutes? Actually, nevermind. I don't want to know. Just go wipe down the tabletops."

"Whatever you say, Uncle Luke."

Rory casually watched Jess. When he made it to the table next to hers, she smiled.

"So I hear you went to school today," she said, "and paid attention."

"It was early. I was tired. I thought it was the local bar," he explained with a shrug.

"Alcohol that early in the morning? Huh. And when you figured out it wasn't the bar?"

"I stole some kid's homework, crossed out his name and put mine on it. Figured I might as well make a ten-out-of-ten while I was there."

"And the paying attention?" Rory asked.

"Your source must have been on the other side of the room. My eyes were open, but I was snoring."

"Sleeping with your eyes open: an impressive talent."

"And necessary," Jess said while his mind warred between saying the rest of the phrase that had originally sprung to mind, whether she would read into what he said or not, and then he shut down his thoughts. If she asked he wouldn't answer, but he still drew in a silent breath in preparation.

"Oh. So you didn't learn that Andrew Johnson purchased Alaska in 1866?"

"Nope," he exhaled.

"Huh," Rory said, watching him with thinned eyes.

The bell rang and knocked against the door a couple times.

"Daughter!" her mother exclaimed, falling into the empty chair.

"Hey, mom."

Jess moved on to the next table, sprayed it once with the cleaner and gave it a quick rub.

The Lorelai Gilmore's shouted their orders to Luke, who set down a basket of fries and poured Lorelai a mug of coffee. They munched on the fries and chatted while they munched. Rory related the story of Dean's rant, how he was uncomfortable with Jess being at school.

Jess smirked.

Lorelai turned to him. "You went to school _and_ paid attention?"

"I slept," he said curtly.

He pulled a book out of his back pocket and dropped into a chair behind the counter, frowning behind the pages. So he went to school. It wasn't really that big of a deal. Yes, he had skipped the majority of the first two weeks back from winter break to work at Wal Mart; had he known how quickly and effortlessly he could get the homework done, he might have picked up his absentee work, done it over the weekend and turned it in on Monday. He could go to school, work part time, probably even finish his homework on a break at work; if not, he could do it while he ate breakfast in the morning. Something in his mind was telling him that he didn't really mind learning, that it was the method that was boring, that it was probably a fluke and he would hate it tomorrow because it wasn't a routine of mindlessness yet. Still, he convinced himself that if Luke saw him attending school he might cut back some of his hours. It was all very logical. And he could give school another chance tomorrow because he wasn't scheduled to work.

The Gilmores' meals came; their conversation continued, but he tuned them out to concentrate on his book.

The next time he looked up was when the bell rang and a customer came in. Caesar was on break; Luke was in the kitchen. Jess reluctantly stood and stuffed his book away. He pulled out his pad and scribbled down the customer's order. Rory and Lorelai got up as he walked by.

Jess slowed his pace and leaned in towards Rory. "Seward. 1867," he said.

"What?" she asked, turning around.

He walked backwards, pointing at her with his order pad. "Seward purchased Alaska in 1867. Johnson was just the crackpot president who took over for Lincoln."

Rory grinned. "I guess you should sleep in class more often." And then she left.

For that smile, he found himself considering his attendance at school as more than a plan constructed out of boredom – as a serious reality. He pictured himself in it, imagined the scenarios, and found that, although it could be torture, he could live with that. Or he could skip and go to work. He could live with that too.

For the next month, Jess attended school regularly, did homework regularly – albeit secretly – and did a couple extra credit assignments where necessary. D's and F's had morphed into straight A's by the time report cards came out.

Dean's discomfort continued to motivate him to attend and, although he wouldn't say that he enjoyed it, Jess tolerated school.

-

Stars Hallow High held its extracurricular fair at the beginning of the fourth nine weeks in the gym. Jess visited the empty tables, ignoring the teacher or student assistant who sat behind the table and tried to tell him about the subject. It was redundant. The information they had printed on stacks of flyers, which Jess pretended to be engrossed in until said teacher or student assistant shut up, was the same as what they tried to tell him. They patronized him. He spun the paper back onto the table, purposely off the stack, and moved on.

"You sure you can read that?" a voice asked behind him.

Jess straightened and glared at the paper. "Offering to help? Because I'm having a little trouble with 'epicene.'" He turned and looked at Dean. "Nevermind. Just found the definition."

Jess brushed by him, but stopped when he saw the unmanned table across from him. He turned back to Dean.

"Hey, doesn't Rory go to Chilton?"

"Why?" Dean demanded.

"No reason," he shrugged, slipped a form off the stack and began filling it out.

Dean came over, asking loudly, "What are you doing?"

"Crazy thing you do with a pen. What's that called again?"

"That's a Chilton application."

"Huh."

"You need a 4.0 GPA to get into that school."

"3.65," Jess corrected, head down, still writing.

"You do not have a 3.65."

As ridiculous as it was to keep saying any number with a decimal point in it Jess kept doing it because Dean's lips were getting tighter and tighter, and lighter and lighter, until they disappeared. "You're right. I've got a 4.0."

"From your freshman year too? And hey, maybe they'll check your middle school grades. Those good enough too? Any referrals? Suspensions? I'm sure Chilton'll love your colorful record."

Jess watched him flounder for hope, for assurance that Jess could not get into Chilton. He smirked.

"I've got to go get some teacher recommendations."

"Yeah, good luck on that," Dean muttered insincerely.

As he left, he heard someone take one of the Chilton forms from the pile – rather angrily – and start writing – rather angrily with that, too. Jess cocked his head to side and sighed amusedly.

-

The bookstore was uncharacteristically noisy. Jess glowered at Jackson and Andrew over the bookshelves, sourly wondering what Jackson was even doing in the bookstore. "Rory's dad" popped up in their conversation, and Jess' gaze halted. He stooped, idly running his fingers along book spines, his gaze on the shelf and his ears listening for more.

The door opened; Jess kept staring and listening.

"Hey, hey Christopher! Jackson Melville," he introduced.

"Hello," Chris said.

Jess looked up as any indifferent customer would, just to see the commotion uncommonly found in the bookstore. And, since they were talking rather loudly, he accidentally overheard their conversation.

"Boy I gotta tell you," Jackson went on, "did they get your description wrong."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah, much more George Clooney than Brad Pitt," Jackson nodded. "Hey Andrew?"

"Yup?"

"Don't you think he's much more George Clooney than Brad Pitt?"

"I'm going with the Billy Crudup comparison myself," Andrew said.

"Really?" Jackson asked.

"Oh yeah."

"I don't see it. Well maybe from the side. Hey do you mind?"

Before Christopher could answer, Jackson had him turned to the side to look at his profile, then again to the other side.

"What? Uh, no, not at all," Chris said, forcing a chuckle.

"Well there's a little Crudup in there. Huh, well it's nice to meet you, whoever you look like," Jackson said.

"Nice to meet you," Chris said, veering Rory down the nearest aisle. "Okay, I'm kidnapping you and getting you out of here."

"They all mean well," she said.

Jess found the book he came for and fingered it out of the row. He glanced at Rory nonchalantly, nodded at her nonchalantly.

"Hey, Jess." Rory smiled and pulled her dad over by the hand. "Dad, this is Jess. He's from New York and tries to pretend like he hates it here."

Yes, that was the impression he wanted everyone to perceive, but, when Rory vocalized it, he found himself suddenlyunsatisfied with the impression he gave her.

"Hello, Steve Randle," Chris said.

Conscious of Rory as he spoke, and suddenly wanting to change her perception of him, he made an effort to be congenial. "Did you read _The Outsiders_ or watch the movie?"

"Both. It was more of a movie reference, though. To the actor. You've got a Tom Cruise profile goin' on there."

"And apparently you've got a George Clooney/Brad Pitt/Billy Crudup thing goin' on. Personally, I've gotta go with Wayne Rogers."

"Trusty 'Trapper' John?"

Jess nodded.

"Must be the hair," Chris said.

"_The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_, huh?" Rory asked, peering at the book in Jess' hands. "Looks like a school assignment."

"What? You mean Taylor hasn't had this book banned in case it offends someone? Has he even read _Huck Finn_?"

"Bring it up at the next town meeting," Rory suggested.

"Yeah, I'll get right on that."

"Nice meeting you, Steve," Chris waved.

"Trapper," he nodded.

"Okay, so I hear you like books," Chris said, leading them away.

"Why yes I do," Rory nodded to her dad.

Jess continued to browse, periodically glancing toward the checkout register. When they said "Compact Oxford English Dictionary" he had been expecting the-tiniest-book-ever-published version of compact, not the Kabbalah version of compact. A mental frown formed when he saw Chris' credit card rejected and Rory's disappointment.

They left, and Jess went to the counter and paid for his books (he had also picked up copies of Mark Twain's other novels, for leisure reading). As he exited, he spotted Rory and her dad heading over to Luke's.

The application he had left in the principal's office to attend Chilton was no longer a ploy to irritate Dean, but suddenly a real application. No. It was a joke. An elaborate joke.

He took _Huck Finn_ out of the bag and flipped to Chapter I:

You don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer_; but that ain't no matter. That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. That is nothing. I never seen anybody but lied one time or another…_

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer 

It wasn't an elaborate joke. It was real. And his trying was real too.

-

**Author's Note -**I really wanted it to be in this chapter, but it was getting too long, so... Next chapter: Jess hears back from Chilton. Also, some script was borrowed from the episode "Chris Returns," and I'll probably keep borrowing script from the episodes following.

Review, please!

**Note 2/12/05 –** I just reread this chapter and decided it needed a little editing. Nothing major was changed, just the wording of a few sentences and some clarifications on who spoke in the bookstore.


	2. Cause Tap Writ Hip Any

****

Chapter Two: Cause Tap Writ Hip Any

-

With half of _Huck Finn_ read and half of the packet of questions on _Huck Finn_ answered, Jess left the bridge when it began to grow dark. Luke was outside, looking for something, someone – him, maybe? – down the street, and he stopped behind the closest tree. He peeked out and Luke was still staring, half-turned away from him. A few minutes later, with four books in his pockets and looking as if he had just shoplifted all of them, and an uncle who _still_ hadn't moved, Jess reconsidered his plan and put all the books back into the bag and stomped across the bridge. He circled the town, cut through a couple yards and an alley - a clean, lighted alley because no filthy, dark alleys could exist in Stars Hollow - and slipped into Doose's.

Inside the market, Jess wandered the aisles. Dean wasn't working tonight. He found a sparse selection of flashlights and took the cheapest one. Taylor was behind the register. Jess glared and dropped the flashlight on the counter.

"Now what could you possibly need a flashlight for at this hour?" Taylor asked suspiciously.

To read because Luke's on a stakeout.

"None of your business."

"Planning some late night heist, are we?"

Yeah, was going to knock off the bookstore because this town doesn't have an actual liquor store.

"How much for the flashlight?" Jess demanded loudly, pointedly.

"How do I know that that's even your money? I seem to recall that the last time you came in here, money disappeared from the donation pot for Stars Hollow's very first traffic light."

"Oh jeez. Forget it," he snarled.

He threw the door open so hard that it bounced off a display table and slammed shut behind him. Jess stalked to Luke's, scowling as he skirted around him, noticing and not caring that the diner had morphed into Magneto's Plastic Prison. Luke didn't mention the bag he carried, probably because he had seen him bolt out of Doose's. Once inside the apartment he dropped the bag and kicked it across the apartment. It sailed into one of the boxes his mother had finally sent over only a few days ago. Gravity drew it down with a _plop_. Jess belly-flopped onto the couch.

Some time later he was still awake, not necessarily comfortable but too close to sleep to change positions. Downstairs he could hear tarps being ripped off, chairs being stacked loudly onto tables, something glass breaking and his uncle cursing. A few minutes later Luke ascended the stairs, opened the door and slammed it shut.

Jess' mind rapidly sifted through the day's event, trying to figure out what he had done, tensed as he waited for Luke to turn his anger to him. Rather than yelling, he heard him run into a box, swear at it, stumble over more boxes, grumble, and finally reach his bed.

Quietly, Jess rolled over onto his back. He pulled the blanket off the top of the couch and fell asleep in a comfortable position.

-

In the morning, Luke wasn't in bed, which was normal as it was - he glanced at the alarm clock - past eight on a Saturday. Jess flipped it to snooze. He got out of bed and, after a brief visit to the lavatory, found his discarded and slightly abused bag. He pulled out _Huck Finn_ and the questions, which he had stuffed into it as a bookmark; less than an hour later he tossed it into the nearest box, finished.

He showered, changed, styled his hair and by ten he felt presentable. He was an hour late for his shift, but early for the Gilmores.

As soon as he passed through the curtain that separated domestic life from work, Luke confronted him.

"Hey, what happened? I set your alarm for eight-thirty."

"Are you sure it had batteries in it this time?"

"That happened once – _once_ – and I still think you took those batteries out," Luke snapped.

"Relax, Heathcliff. It's Saturday. The rush doesn't come in 'til noon."

"No, but I told you to be down here an hour ago. When I tell you to be down here by a certain time, I expect you to be down here by that time. It's called responsibility, Jess! And you better start living up to some of yours right now!" he shouted, face contorted, reddening.

"Hey! I'm down here, aren't I? In a shirt that won't scare away your stupid customers!" he shouted back, matching Luke's volume. "Now either put me to work or I'm outta here!"

Luke threw a rag and an order pad at him. "Shut up and be polite to my customers!"

Jess began wiping off one table so viciously that he upset the peppershaker. He set it back up and wiped the table again, less aggressively.

"Excuse me. What's the special today?"

Jess bit back the acerbic answers that immediately came to mind and usually immediately out of his mouth. Instead, he answered monotonously, "Four-slice French toast."

"Sounds great. I'll have that."

"Sure," he said, scribbling down the order. He took it back to Caesar.

There was his effort. His daily allotment had now been used up. Luke had better have noticed it.

About twenty minutes later Lorelai and Rory came in. Luke saw them, about-faced and vanished into the storage room. Lorelai frowned, following him tentatively. Jess placed a cup on the counter, where Rory had sat down, and filled it with coffee.

"What's goin' on there?" Jess asked conversationally, nodding towards the storeroom.

"They had a paint date last night and mom forgot."

"Huh."

"So how'd you like _Huck Finn_?"

"Wasn't the first time I'd read it."

"Yeah?"

"I was eight. Made more sense this time."

"And? Wha'd you think of it?" she urged.

He shrugged, uncomfortable with the prospect of deeper conversation. Not thinking, usually when he was screaming, his verbal skills were great; once thought was involved, they declined. Then he shut down. Forgot to worry, forgot to think. He just did. To Rory, he hadn't even paused.

"Huck knew more than society."

"But he didn't even go to school."

"If you measures intelligence by what you learn in school."

"I'm intrigued," Rory said.

"He knew how to survive on his own. He had a rough life, and he was ostracized for it. But he solved every single problem that came up. Not always legally – or even the way he thought people would want him to – but at least he figured it out on his own, which is more than can be said for the majority of people. And in the end he was pretty satisfied with his decisions. Including his dressing up as little 'Sarah Mary.'"

Rory laughed, infecting him with the same affliction, which he stubbornly fought off.

"Luke, please say something. Anything. Call me a rat." Lorelai paused. Luke headed over to take Kirk's order, readily and willingly. "Luke, c'mon!"

Lorelai sighed and lifted herself up into the stool next to Rory. Jess poured her a cup of coffee.

"Breakfast or lunch?" he asked.

"Blueberry pancakes and chili cheese fries."

"Gross!" Rory made a face.

"Pregnant. Got it," Jess said.

"On separate plates," Lorelai clarified.

He wrote down the order, ignoring her glare, ignoring her when her eyes suddenly got too wide, but not quite ignoring her smile – leer, almost – which she aimed at him.

"Hey, Jess," she crooned sugarly, "can you do me a favor?"

"No."

"Can I have your key to the diner?"

"Don't have one."

"What? How do you close then?"

"With Luke's key," he said.

"Oh," Lorelai said, deflating.

Jess got Rory's order and handed the paper back to Caesar. When he returned with their food Lorelai wasn't talking, and Rory had given up on getting her to talk. Jess set their plates down in front of them.

"If you come by around eleven-thirty the door might be open," Jess mentioned casually, rolled his eyes, looked as if it were the most agonizing sentence he could say.

"Oh. Oh," she perked. "Okay. Remind me to get in touch with Mrs. Doubtfire's brother later."

"What?" Rory asked.

"Feels like I need to assume a new identity to be involved in Luke's life again," she nodded slowly, wisely.

"And then you'll learn how to cook so you can see your kids again. Forget about me, I wanna see the kid you had with Luke. My very own half-sister or brother!"

"Evil daughter," Lorelei mumbled and began eating.

-

At eleven twenty-five, Jess was behind the counter reading _The Prince and the Pauper_. Luke had gone to bed two and a half hours ago after Jess offered – very sarcastically – to close the diner on the pretenses of "being more responsible." Luke had sighed, slapped the keys into his hand and told him to come get him if there was a fire.

Five minutes later he unlocked the door, flipped the light switch off and headed upstairs. He was just going behind the counter when someone started knocking, incessantly, on the door. With an annoyed grunt, Jess turned around. He flipped the light back on.

Outside was Lorelai, still knocking, staring at the ground. He waited for her to look up and then pointed at the doorknob. Confused, she turned the knob, gasping in surprise when the door opened. She quickly came in and shut the door.

"I fell asleep. I thought I was late and you'd given up on me. I was watching t.v. and drinking soda because I'd finished all of the coffee. Oh my god. No more Vanilla Coke, no more Dances With Wolves ever again. Damn Kevin Costner." She took a breath. "So, where's the paint?"

"Probably in back," he motioned.

Lorelai headed into the storeroom. As he retrieved his book from the counter he heard plastic moving, then heard skin smacking plastic, and Lorelai making a "Dah" noise. He glanced in and found her wrestling with one of the tarps. Jess shoved the novel into his back pocket and snatched the tarp off her, glaring at her flailing arms, glaring at her, daring her to say something when he took it and spread it over one of the tables, daring her to say something when he set up the rest of the tarps. Had she even uttered the first word of a sentence Jess would have dropped them and said "goodnight." But she had said nothing, hadn't even looked at him while she lugged out the paint and the brushes.

Before he went up to bed, he prepared a fresh pot of coffee.

Responsibility.

It wasn't very responsible of him to leave the keys of the diner with a woman who wasn't even employed there.

Effort.

Pour water, rip bag, add coffee. Cover a few tables with some stupid pieces of plastic. They were tasks that required absolutely no brainpower, thus no effort.

He was still irresponsible; he still did the very least he could possibly do.

He sat in the diner and waited to open it to Rory's mother as he had implied that he would. He went to school and did his homework.

He could stop whenever he wanted to. But, since he wasn't being responsible, wasn't putting in any effort, there was nothing to stop.

Except that little bit of responsibility he lived up to and that small amount of effort he put in.

-

A month before the end of school, his junior year, Jess idly looked through the mail Luke had left on the kitchen table. He paused at the letter addressed to Mr. Jess Mariano, return address: Chilton Preparatory. He ripped the envelope open and read:

"Dear Mr. Mariano, we are happy to inform you that you have been accepted into Chilton..."

Also enclosed was a preaddressed, prepaid envelope in which to send the parental approval form and the tuition check. Jess gawked at the sum of money they expected to allow him to come to their school. Included in the expenses were school uniforms, one for every day of the school week.

Uniforms.

No.

He would casually show Dean the letter, watch him get angry at the idea of him going to his girlfriend's school, conveniently not correcting his incorrect assumption. He wouldn't go.

Jess signed his name at the bottom of the approval form, on the line above "student signature." He considered forging the "parent/legal guardian signature", but instead he left the papers open, out on the table for Luke to notice and read, to sign if he wanted to. If Luke asked him about it, tried to even casually mention it, he would say that he didn't want to go – which he didn't. He would give up school and go to work full time at Wal Mart and forget that he had ever received an acceptance letter from Chilton.

Going to a school that demanded to be paid for his attendance, going to a school that demanded he wear the same conformist clothes – and a tie, a freaking _tie_ – going to a school that embodied the very upper class he never wanted to associate with, mocked, and secretly loathed was ludicrous, unfathomable. It made absolutely no sense. Yet he had signed the paper.

He trudged downstairs for work, on time, which he proceeded to do obediently and semi-politely. He gave Luke no reason to complain. When the diner was empty at nine, Jess muttered that he had homework to do, leaving without seeing Luke's shocked face, but hearing his slow and shocked, "Okay."

Thirty minutes later, Luke came upstairs to see Jess sitting on his mattress (Luke had finally snapped, purchased the building next door and expanded the apartment) with his school books spread out around him, one of them open in his lap. He had been taking notes on the chapter – they were for a grade – when he heard Luke coming up. He didn't care what Luke saw, what he thought. Then the door opened and he lost his concentration; all he could do what stare at the text and pretend that he was reading it, not actually listening to find out what Luke did.

Luke saw the papers on the table and, to see if it was anything important, started reading. Jess watched from the corner of his eye as his uncle's eyebrows shot up and he picked up the letter. He sat down and read it. At one point Luke muttered an, "Oh, jeez," and Jess knew he had seen the cost.

As the beginnings of uneasiness began to settle, Jess decided he didn't care; it didn't matter. He didn't care if Luke wouldn't throw away that much money on him. There was no reason for him to. Not only was his attendance at Chilton unnecessary – a school was a school – but his uncle had no guarantee that his investment wouldn't be wasted. At any time Jess could get bored, or decide that the work wasn't important enough to put any effort into; he could decide that he didn't want the responsibility and his uncle's investment would be squandered.

Effort and responsibility. Responsibility and effort.

He wouldn't go; Luke wouldn't do it.

Luke looked over at him, mouth open to say something, but Jess glared at him so intensely that he was almost curling his lips and showing teeth.

One word about it – just one – and he would deny that he ever applied to Chilton.

"Do you want some dinner or somethin'?"

Jess shook his head. "I'm not hungry."

"Okay. Uh, tomorrow then."

"Whatever."

Luke got out his checkbook, wrote out the tuition fee, ripped it out and put it into the prepaid envelope along with the approval form. He sealed the envelope.

He was going to Effort and Responsibility.

He was going to Chilton.

He didn't know why.

-

****

Author's Note – Amy Sherman-Palladino originally wrote (in the episode "Nick Nora, Sid Nancy") that Jess' father had left him and his mom two years prior (assuming that "the great prize" Liz picked up at a "der wienershnitzel" is Jimmy, because how many hot dog guys could she have possibly had?). Later she wrote that Jimmy had left right after Jess was born. Personally, I prefer the two years prior abandonment, so assume that that's the history in this story.

Thank you all for the reviews! I feel loved. But don't expect updates to keep coming this quickly. I go back to school Wednesday, but I'll try to keep a regular update schedule.

Also, I'm putting up reference guides in my Livejournal (because I know I always hate being out of the loop on the Gilmore references), username: neverrebel. Or just go to my profile for the direct link.


	3. Chew Ear Thin Ooze

**Chapter Three**: Tell East Infest Oval

-

"This, boys and girls, is the story of true love: a beautiful girl from one county, a handsome boy from another; they meet and they fall in love. Separated by distance and by parents who did not approve of the union, the young couple dreamed of a day that they could be together. They wrote each other beautiful letters: letters of longing and passion, letters full of promises and plans for the future. Soon the separation proved too much for either one of them to bear. So, one night, cold and black with no light to guide them, they both snuck out of their homes and ran away as fast as they could. It was so dark out that they were both soon lost and it seemed as if they would never find each other. Finally, the girl dropped to her knees, tears streaming down her lovely face. 'Oh, my love, where are you? How will I find you?'"

From one pocket, Jess pulled out a lighter; from another pocket, a round, lumpy ball with a wick.

"Suddenly, a band of stars appeared in the sky. These stars shone so brightly they lit up the entire countryside. The girl jumped to her feet and followed the path of the stars until finally she found herself standing right where the town gazebo is today. And there waiting for her was her one true love, who had also been led here by the blanket of friendly stars."

Jess lit the ball's fuse and gently rolled it across the steps in front of Miss Patty's studio door.

"And that, my friends, is the story of how Stars Hollow came to be, and why we celebrate that fateful night every year at about this time," Miss Patty concluded dramatically. "Now, we still – oh, what is that dreadful smell?"

Jess took off through the park, through the bushes, through several backyards and emerged on the sidewalk a block away. He pulled a novel out of his back pocket, read it on his stroll back to the diner, continued reading it in the diner because all of the customer's had already been served – except for Taylor, who was sitting alone in the corner by the door. A minute later Miss Patty came in and joined Taylor at the table.

"Ugh. What is that awful smell?" he asked.

"Someone dropped a stink bomb at my door. Oh, it was terrible. I had to walk the children through it to get them outside. I hope this smell washes off. It would be unbearable if I smelled like this at the Firelight Festival tonight."

"Did you get a look at the perpetrator?" Taylor asked, his gaze sliding towards Jess. "Get a good look at him while he ran off? Did he maybe have dark hair? Black shirt? Look like a juvenile delinquent?"

"Oh I didn't see who did it, Taylor."

Luke stared at Jess.

"Hey, where'd you say you went again?" he asked.

"Bookstore." Jess held up the book he was reading.

"Pretty far along in it."

"Yeah, well, I've been reading it in the store. Finally remembered to bring money this time," he said evenly.

The bell clanged above the door. Lorelai dropped her purse on the counter and her butt on a stool.

"I was almost crushed by a paper machete star," she announced. "How's your day?"

"Well, it's looking pretty good now," he said sarcastically, eyeing Jess.

Their banter continued, carrying on in a particularly cynical tone today, and Jess was able to tune out the chatter until an argument boiled up from Taylor's table.

"No, no, Patty, you're wrong. They built the fire to throw themselves on it when their families found them!"

"Taylor you're crazy! They built the fire so that they could stay warm their first night here."

"Patty, I am the recording secretary for the Stars Hollow City Council, I think I know how my town was founded!"

"Ugh!" Lorelai groaned. "Can nobody talk about anything else but this stupid festival?" She paused, looked around. "That came out a lot louder then it was supposed to, didn't it?"

"Yup," Luke nodded.

"Yup," she echoed.

"This festival is commemorating the founding of our town, young lady," Taylor said.

"Whoop-dee-do," Jess muttered.

"I know Taylor. I'm sorry."

An elderly couple, finished with their brunch, waved a hand in the air for their check. Jess saw it in the corner of his peripheral vision, yet Luke didn't see it and he was actually looking up. He gave his uncle another second to notice, but he was too focused on Lorelai and the extra attention she was giving him today. Jess threw down his book, found the old couple's receipt and took it over to them.

Someone else came into the diner as he was clearing the dirty plates, someone new, who Luke knew personally and who caused his discomfort to permeate through the room and settle thickly as a clumsy kind of awkwardness. It spread over Lorelai too, who stumbled constantly as she babbled until, finally, she excused herself to "go sit in a closet or something."

"So… hi," this mystery woman said, setting her bags in the middle of the floor.

"Hi," Luke breathed uncomfortably.

Jess dropped the dishes into the sink in back and returned to the silent film, all directed, produced and acted out by Luke Danes. Luke caught him by the shoulder and dragged him over.

"Jess, this is Rachel. Rachel, this is my nephew."

"Hi. I remember Luke mentioning you a while ago. You're Liz's son, right?"

"Not by choice." And he took up his former seat and resumed reading.

"Wow, I really should have called, huh?"

"Nah, you never did before. I'd be surprised if you started now."

"Luke."

"No, really, it's fine."

"So," Rachel paused. "How have you been?"

An uncomfortable, forced conversation followed. They danced, sometimes tripped, around something important, something that made it preferable for them to keep dancing and tripping rather than moving in sync. As the lunch rush began to arrive, Luke took her bags upstairs to "get them out of the way."

Right.

-

The Firelight Festival was a legitimate town celebration, a remarkable fete that did not occur often – ever, actually – but Stars Hollow still managed to make even a legitimate celebration asinine. Jess stood away from the crowd, on the other side of the street away, too far away to hear the majority of the speech. The crowd simultaneously patted themselves down. Detachedly, he thought they were insane – one big, uniform Bedlam.

A couple people ran off. The crowd began to move and disperse, leaving the giant woodpile relatively unobserved. He didn't question the opportunity, just went with it. He walked across the street, hands in his jacket pockets, fingers wrapped around two imperfectly round objects, thumbs fiddling with the fuses. When he reached the outskirts of the crowd, he spotted Rory and Dean, holding hands as they approached the festival. He altered his course. They both saw him coming; Dean shook his head, Rory smiled.

"Now where have you two been? You could have missed the big event," he said, exaggerating with a gesture of his hands.

"Not a chance," Rory said. "We've still got fifteen minutes before Miss Patty brings back some matches."

Dean wrapped an arm around Rory's waist. "What are you doing here, Jess?"

"Here right now? Right here? Or here at this festival? Or here in Stars Hollow? All of which have very different answers."

"You don't even like this town and now you're suddenly participating in –"

"Spectating," Jess corrected.

"–in it. What was your prank gonna be for this one?"

Rory pulled out of her boyfriend's one-armed embrace and looked at him. "Dean."

He fingered one of the stink bombs in his pocket.

"What? He never goes to any town events, never goes to town meetings. Just seems a little suspicious to me."

"This is the oldest tradition in Stars Hollow, and one of the prettiest traditions, and I don't think Jess would do anything to it." She switched her gaze over to him. "Right?"

It wasn't the suspecting, I'm-on-to-you version of the question. Something in her tone – honesty, trust even – confirmed that she actually believed what she said.

Jess took his hand out of his pocket. He didn't really want to plant a stink bomb in the fire anyway. The smell would probably drift over to Luke's and he would have to fall asleep with that stench in his nose. He would rather have Dean fall asleep with that stench in his nose – and his labor wouldn't be wasted.

"Right," he nodded to Rory. Only a second has lapsed. "I just came by to ask Dean about his Chilton application. Did you ever hear back from them?"

"Oh, you finally get your rejection letter?" Dean riposted.

"What? No," Jess dimissed. "But I was just about to ask you the same thing."

"What application?" Rory asked, tugging on Dean's elbow. "Did you apply to Chilton?"

"It's no big deal," he said.

"Guess that means you didn't get in, huh?"

"Yeah, well, I don't think you're gonna get in either, so I wouldn't be too cocky."

"Wait," Rory said, turning to Jess. "You applied to Chilton too?"

"Chilton? Don't you go to Chilton?" he adopted a puzzled countenance, tapped his chin as if trying to remember.

"Jess. Did you get in?"

He grinned, partly because Rory wore a stern face, partly because he had the answer but wasn't going to part with it, partly because Dean's face had all scrunched together and met in the middle.

"Goodnight, Rory."

Later that night, two smoke bombs were lit and left on Dean's doorstep. However, before that incident, almost right after Jess turned away, actually, Luke approached him.

"Hey, Jess." Luke paused, waited for him to return the greeting. He didn't. "Okay. So listen, Rachel – the woman you met earlier – Rachel's thinking about staying. Which doesn't mean a whole lot since she comes and goes like that crazy, grinning cat in that equally crazy book."

"The Cheshire Cat?"

"Yeah, that's the one. And who knows how long she'll actually stick around this time, but she's my ex-girlfriend–"

Jess hid his amazement with an unenthusiastic, "Huh."

"–and I told her whatever."

"Okay…"

"That means she would stay at the apartment. Not tonight," he added quickly, "because I told her I had to run the idea by you, so Lorelai gave her a room at the inn, and…" he exhaled. "Would you be okay with that?"

"It's your apartment. Do whatever you want."

He tried to walk away. Luke blocked his path.

"Jess, you live there too. If you're not okay with it, tell me, and I tell her no."

"Luke, I don't care," he huffed.

"Okay. Okay, maybe I can, uh, get Tom over to put up a divider or build a wall or somethin'. You can have your privacy."

"Was never a problem before," he said, moving around Luke.

"C'mon, Jess, I'm just trying to make this easy on you."

"Then make sure there's a door," he called over his shoulder.

"What?"

"In the wall. Make sure there's a door."

"Right," Luke mumbled.

-

The next morning Jess spent in the storage room putting food condiments on the shelves. Chilton popped into his thoughts erratically, always fiercely shoved out as soon as it entered. But he couldn't shut his thoughts off to it. It kept showing up, knocking at the door, peering in through the window, calling on the phone, leaving messages on the answering machine. Finally, his patience melted, and he grudgingly let it in.

He was going to Chilton.

Big whoop.

Schoolwork had become routine. It was as easy as not doing it, but with the added perk of getting Luke off his back. Except… how long could he really do this? His mother was a drug addict, his father a deadbeat and a deserter. Failure was hereditary. He accepted that and gave up on success. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realized that an acceptance to Chilton was a success, but he stuffed that reality away, into the back of the closet, under unwanted memories he never tossed out, under piles of unwashed memories he had thrown in because he never got around to doing the laundry. Chilton was intangible, an unreality in his mind. Chilton was a school of success; Jess was a man of failure.

A feeling of satisfaction, of superiority, to the kids who attended Chilton developed within him. If he really tried, he could be more than any of them. But he didn't try – never tried – because he didn't want to fail. A person can't fail something they don't try to succeed at.

He flattened the last box and stashed it behind one of the shelves. Back in the customer zone, Rachel wore an apron and weaved through the tables with plates and drinks, unobtrusively, skillfully, being there without the customer's really knowing she was there.

There was no reason to be more than them.

Rory was there with her mother.

There might have been a reason for him to be better than them.

He snagged the coffeepot off the machine and refilled their mugs. Rory murmured her thanks.

There was a reason to try. He could fail – probably would – but he accepted it, expected it, lived with it.

"Luke, please notice that Jess does not lecture on the many ways coffee is slowly rotting my insides, nor does he ask how many cups I've had. He just serves. You should try that too," Lorelai said.

Luke didn't even look up from the table he wiped off. "Jess can contribute all he wants to killing you, but I choose not to."

"That's heinous, Luke. If I say kill me, then kill me, damnit!" She pounded her first on the table. Jess turned. "Wait. Come back, Jess." Slowly, reluctantly, he did. "Rory said you applied to Chilton."

"Chilton? Chilton," he repeated several more times, pondering. "Nope, never heard of it."

"Jess, tell us. Please," Rory pouted. "Did you get in or not?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Lorelai giggled and grabbed Rory's arm. "Oh my god. Imagine him in the uniform."

"My uniform?"

She pondered, smiled, laughed. "Even funnier, but no. The guys' uniform. And the tie!"

They laughed. Jess rolled his eyes and left.

"No, wait, Jess! Tell me if you got in!" Rory begged.

"Yeah, and bring back the coffee!" her mother added.

Jess did neither.

From New York to Stars Hollow, from apartment to apartment, from alcoholic/druggie mother to cranky-but-clean uncle, from 3.8 in middle school to 4.0 in high school, from drug runners to unicorn peddlers, from friends who cut class to smoke to friendless, Jess headed down a blatantly different path; Jess headed down an inconspicuously similar path. He marched indifferently down the way of the Artful Dodger; he wandered ditheringly down the way of Oliver Twist.

-

Monday afternoon-going-on-evening, Jess's fist hovered, hesitated, before knocking on the door. Rory opened it.

"Hey," she greeted as if he visited regularly, and then noticed something on his shoulder. "I didn't know you owned a backpack."

He shrugged, watched her, waited.

"So," she said.

"You gonna invite me in?"

"You haven't told me why you're here yet."

"I need a computer," he said.

"Better start saving," she suggested.

"I also need a place to study," he said and presented his ready-made excuse. "Luke's got Tom up in the apartment building a wall."

"A wall?"

"To separate my room from the kitchen, the living room and Luke's bedroom. There's nothing but banging and words that are very inappropriate for me to hear."

"Oh, I'm sure."

Jess raised his brow. "So?"

"So what?"

"Can I come in?" he asked.

"Oh. Yeah." She moved out of the way, then suddenly jumped back into the doorway, spreading her arms to either side of the frame. "Wait! You have to tell me if you got into Chilton or not."

"Okay," he said and walked into her arm, stood close enough to feel her body heat. He cocked his head and threw her a bewildered look. "Thought you said I could come in?"

"You haven't told me yet."

"You didn't say _when_ I had to tell you."

His shoulder rested against her outstretched arm, but he didn't make a move. Usually he thoughtlessly moved his game piece, rarely thinking a turn in advance, because none of the games were ever finished. This opponent, though, made him want to plan out his next move, analyze every possible countermove, every gain and loss to be had, made him want to finish the game. At the same time, he didn't want to finish the game – not if he could lose.

"Right now," Rory clarified nervously.

"Nope, that's not what I agreed to." When she didn't stand down, Jess switched his game strategy. "All right. Fine. I'll just go. Fail my English exam tomorrow because I didn't have my paper typed. Fail school. I won't have a future, and you'll have to live knowing that you could have saved me from my horrible fate."

"Fine. You can use my computer, but no studying. You can't study here until you tell me," she said, pointing her index finger at him.

Temporary victory. He contained a smirk.

She led him in, to the computer in her room, turned it on for him. There was an open notebook on Rory's bed, along with a couple loose-leaf pieces of notebook paper. She bent down and gathered it all up in her arms.

"You don't have to go," he told her, standing so close behind her that she bumped into him when she stood up. A splotch of glorious heat warmed his stomach. He tried to ruin her concentration and force a premature move, trying to make it his move again. However, he also wanted Rory to keep it her turn. He didn't want her to witness him doing anything that could be construed as work to the ignorant observer.

"I know, but I've got some studying to do too and I don't want to bother you. It's no problem. Oh, and there's soda in the fridge."

He dropped his backpack on the floor next to the computer chair.

"I'm not allowed in your fridge. Your mom forbade me last time I was here."

"Because you took a beer. There's no beer this time so I'm not worried." And she disappeared into the living room.

She wasn't worried. He stole lawn gnomes, drew chalk outlines, set off stink bombs, but she wasn't worried. Had anyone else said that he would have been determined to prove them wrong, show them that their faith in him was misplaced, that he absolutely did not live up to expectations – anyone's expectations. Instead, he was determined to prove Rory Gilmore right.

From his backpack he pulled out an all-purpose spiral notebook, the front pocket stuffed with returned tests and quizzes, with homework and class assignments that had accumulated into a hefty stack of proof that he tried – and still continued to try. He flipped through to his written final copy, folded the previous pages back; he set the notebook down next to the keyboard, opened Word, and typed his paper. Once complete, he proofread, tweaked, and hit print.

The front door opened and closed.

"Rory, I have movies!" Lorelai called.

"I have finals!" Rory returned.

"I have chocolate and assorted junk food."

"Chocolate is a form of junk food."

"No, no. Chocolate is a food group unto itself and– where is my couch? Rory? Oh no, my daughter has been buried in a paperslide. Rory, where are you?" Lorelai cried dramatically.

"Ha ha," she said. "Now what are you doing with junk food and movies?"

Jess reorganized the papers into sequential order, though the teacher had never _said_ anything about putting them in the right order before turning it in. He hunted the desk for a stapler.

"Movie night," Lorelai stated. "I'm giving you a break from Chilton."

"I can't take a break!"

"But you're at the end of the book."

"And then I have to review my notes," Rory said.

"The ones you reviewed last night?"

"Um…"

"Face it, kid, you're ahead of schedule."

"Fine. One more look over, then a movie. One," she emphasized.

Jess found the stapler, stuck the corner of his papers in and pressed.

"What was that noise?" he heard Lorelai ask.

"Oh, Jess is here. He needed to type up something for English," Rory explained.

Footsteps headed his way. He kept his back to the door, kept acting natural, calm, like he was commonly found in Rory's bedroom, like there was no hidden hostility between her mom and him.

"Jess?"

He grabbed his notebook, turned to her as he tucked his essay away behind the cover.

"Huh?"

She glanced at the chair. "I didn't know you owned a book bag."

The instinct to run ignited immediately. He automatically scouted his escape routes, all of which ran past Lorelai Gilmore, who blocked the doorway. He planted his feet, raised his brows, waited for her to continue so he could scram. She, too, seemed to be waiting, as her eyes searched him for intent, sought out an ulterior motive. Tired of her scrutinizing, Jess looked down to slip his notebook into his bag.

By going to school Jess had become well acquainted with quizzes, both pop and planned, and he sullenly realized that the quiz had already been handed out, he was already taking it, and he had forgotten to put his name at the top of the paper. There were two main types of quizzes: multiple choice and fill in the blank. Multiple choice left room for the slacker to guess; fill in the blank proved that, not only did the student do the work, but paid attention too.

"What'd you have to do for English?" she asked, falsely curious.

Jess filled in the blank. "Research paper."

"What was the topic?"

Rory came up behind her mom, a late student finding she would have to make up the quiz another time.

There was no place for smartass answers on a quiz. Wrong was wrong, and wrong meant points off. (On that same note, right was right, no matter if the tone was sarcastic, disdainful or derisive.) Depending on the length of the quiz, he could miss one question and still manage an A. But this felt like a short quiz, one where one wrong answer dropped him a letter grade. A perfect score was still possible and, even as he questioned it, went for it.

"Fallibility of literature."

"Explain."

An essay question: for the student who neglected the assignment it was a guaranteed lower grade; for the student who completed the assignment, it was a comprehensive assessment to prove that they understood it too.

Jess went on emotional shut down, didn't think, just answered, and didn't care.

"Once it's assigned, no one wants to read it. So basically the school system is responsible for the uneducated, illiterate youth of America."

"And you're finished now?"

"Yep."

"Okay," she drawled, studying him again, but this time perplexedly. "We're not exactly having a Lean Cuisine meal, but I guess you can help yourself."

And, like his teachers did when he went from zero attendance to, not only showing up but, partaking in class assignments, he was given, somewhat amazed and reluctantly, an A.

Jess acknowledged her offer with a nod, but Rory shook her head. His feet had sprouted deep roots, averse to being deracinated.

"Nope. Not part of our agreement. No studying and definitely no dinner until you hold up your part of the deal, buster." She folded her arms, fixed him with an impatient stare, tried to look intimidating.

"Babs, that can hardly be considered dinner," he said, motioning toward Lorelai, who dumped a bag of marshmallows into a bowl.

Before he spoke he knew that there was no way to escape this time; all exits had been locked, barred and sealed. He was right: Rory didn't budge.

"Okay, so I did hear back from Chilton," he admitted.

Rory pursed her lips, still waiting. A small smile flitted over his lips as he thought of the letter: the letter that should have weighed him down, tied him down, but instead brought him a vague, fleeting sense of accomplishment. Jess twisted the smile into a look of annoyance, but he was stalling. Apparently, Rory knew that too, because she began tapping her foot.

"The letter just went on and on about goals and expectations. Then at the bottom they threw in a cost and a couple dates."

"A cost?" Confusion, then clarity. "Yes? You got in?"

Jess nodded, externally blank, internally savoring Rory's excitement. Excitement because of something he'd done. It was no big deal.

"Are you gonna go?"

The look on her face – eyes wide, corners of her mouth ready to explode into a grin – almost tempted him to answer. But, while he didn't find an exit, he found a hiding spot.

"I'm afraid that wasn't part of the bargain, Miss Gilmore." He pulled a textbook out of his bag, notebook paper sticking out from various locations between the pages. He waved the book at her. "I've got studying to do."

-

**Author's Note**: Okay, this chapter was ten pages long. I don't plan to do that often, but I'm trying to move it along. Next chapter: Chilton, like all public schools, assigns summer reading. Unlike other schools, it assigns even more than summer reading.

To everyone who has reviewed this story: thank you, thank you, _thank you_. I've never gotten this kind of response before and I'm totally psyched. And, if anyone has any questions they would like personally answered (or references they would like explained), leave a comment on my LiveJournal (link is in my profile).

Please keep the reviews coming!


	4. Come You Naughty Sir Fizz

**Author's Note **– Someone brought this up, so I'm going to quickly explain: Dean and Rory did not break up at the festival. He didn't start building her a car, and he wasn't planning on saying "I love you." I figure if Jess arrived earlier, his jealousy would be brought out earlier too.

Also, I've taken some liberties with the timeline, but Angeleyez kindly set me straight on a major screw up: I had Jess entering as a Senior, when in fact he should be entering as a Junior. So, I've corrected that.

**Chapter Four – **Come You Naughty Sir Fizz

-

For some, the truth was easy; for Jess, lying was easier. He didn't understand their acceptance of reality; they didn't understand his repulsion to it. They willingly revealed their lives, their personal, private lives, with honesty while he concealed his with sarcastic half-truths and careful evasion. Sometimes he wondered why anyone else but him could talk about their dreams, their frustrations, without embarrassment or dread. Then he stopped wondering, kept lying, kept accumulating the lies.

His ability to lie came from his ability to believe it. Once he believed it, he could visualize it, remember it. When Rory came into the diner on the first day of summer break, he remembered. He wasn't lying to her, though, only precisely averting the truth.

"Hey," he greeted as she sat down at the counter, routinely poured her a cup of coffee. "Where's your mom?"

"School may take a break, but the inn doesn't."

"Your school takes breaks?" he asked, feigned shock.

"Yes. They break, we don't. They send us some summer assignments in the mail."

"Because once you pop the fun don't stop," Jess said blandly.

"What about you?" she asked.

"What about me?"

He leaned forward on the counter, wanting to tell her, wanting to hide it, wanting to surprise her the first day back to school, wanting her to figure it out before then. He debated between the realistic and the idealistic, the practical and the fantasy.

"Did Chilton send you any more letters? Like a summer reading assignment?" Rory asked.

But he couldn't just blurt it out either. He built up the suspense; he couldn't let the climax disappoint now.

"You gonna order anything?" He pulled out his order pad and a pencil from behind his ear.

"Evasive," she said.

"Didn't think you were serious."

She placed her order. Jess slid the order back to Caesar.

"Well I was."

The mail hadn't been dropped off yet. He could answer without a lie.

"Nope." And so her assumption wouldn't be pushed further toward the positive, added, "Should they be sending me another letter? Did you get two acceptance letters? I mean, I filled out two, but I thought they'd figure out that there's no one in the world_ really_ named Holden Caulfield."

"Maybe they just can't resist someone who fails out of prep school."

Caesar called to Jess. As Jess retrieved the plate of food, the bell above the door jingled. He glanced over reflexively, without curiosity, and rolled his eyes when he saw the mail carrier. Jess slid Rory her food. The mailman dropped a small stack of envelopes held together by a rubber band on the counter, stayed to see Jess pick them up, and left. He casually fingered through them, not pausing when he saw the Chilton logo on the return address of one, not concealing them from Rory in case she peeked, but she ate her food, watching without being nosy, respecting his privacy when he didn't want her to.

Determined, Jess yanked the Chilton letter out, ripped it open, hid his self-consciousness with irritation. He glared as he read. Just as Rory had said, there was a summer reading assignment. For incoming Juniors: _The Fountainhead_ by Ayn Rand and a reading log. They included specific instructions on how these reading logs were to be done, how many they expected to be done. On the back of the letter, Chilton stated that all students were to acquire forty hours of community service. They were to have proof that they completed these hours over the summer with them on August 12th: the first day of school.

Jess dropped the letter, picked up the coffeepot, stiffly refilled drinks around the diner. As he did, he slid his eyes toward Rory's back to see if she would pick up the letter, but she didn't. She hunched over the counter, eating. She could have been reading it, but he couldn't tell from her posture. When he slipped the pot back onto the machine, her eyes weren't on the letter. Jess folded the letter back into the envelope and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Hey, Jess, do you want to go to the bookstore? Pick up a couple books?"

He glared at her, hearing instead, "Do you want to pick up _The Fountainhead_ for school?" She smiled, innocently, and Jess thought she hadn't read the letter.

"And congratulations, Jamal."

His mind rapidly sifted through novel titles and characters. Nothing clicked, so he ignored the reference.

Rory knew. He didn't want the congratulations, didn't know what to do with it. Rachel came downstairs, greeted him pleasantly. He grabbed the mail and retreated with it upstairs without returning the greeting or the pleasantness.

-

"You're going to build a house?" Dean asked, walking alongside Rory.

"It's for charity. Plus I need forty hours of community service before I go back to school."

"Well, how long are you gonna be gone?"

Rory shrugged as they walked past Doose's. "I don't know, why?"

"I just thought we could hang today. Maybe see a movie, get something to eat. We could go to a bookstore. I'll watch you browse for six or seven hours."

"I would love to but I have to do this thing today."

He gently grabbed her wrist and stopped her, turned her around. "Blow it off," he said.

"I can't," Rory said, shaking her head.

"Did I mention the bookstore for six or seven hours?"

"How about tonight?" Rory suggested, gleefully wide-eyed. "We can get a pizza and go on Amazon. You'll be just as bored watching me ordering books, I promise."

"Deal."

"Good." She dropped his hand. "I have to go."

Rory quickly moved around him, checked her watch to make sure she hadn't missed the bus. She slowed when she saw that she still had ten minutes.

In the diner, Jess threw down the wash rag he had been cleaning tables with when he spotted Rory's yellow backpack.

"I'm out!" he called and darted out of the diner, Luke shouting, "Hey!" at his back.

Rory took a seat on the bench at the bus stop. Jess walked over casually, hopped over the back of the bench and landed next to her.

"You know there's no school today, right?" he asked.

"I'm going to build a house."

"That 'Rebuilding Together' thing? Why do that when you can save the manatees?"

"Because we actually have houses. Besides, I heard from a source that it looks great on your college transcript," Rory said.

"Huh."

"Yeah. So what are your community service plans?"

"Building a house. I hear it'll great on my college transcript." But even as he said it he wondered if he would even need it to put on a transcript that he hadn't considered. College seemed far off and intangible. For him unreachable. However, Chilton was present, and he could waste a couple hours hammering nails.

The bus pulled up next to the curb. They got on, paid, sat down at the back of the bus where Jess had led.

"So, _The Fountainhead_, have you read it before?" Rory asked him.

"Couldn't make it through it." Because one of his buddies in New York caught him reading it, had scoffed at it. Jess told him he'd found it on the bench, that it was something to do, got up and left the novel. When he came back for it, it was gone, and he never got around to getting another copy. The story still swirled vaguely in his mind. He could live without finishing it, but now the desire to know the ending sprung up and hovered in his mind.

"I read it once when I was ten."

"Ten?" he asked.

"Yeah, but I didn't understand a word of it so I had to reread it last year."

Maybe he could read it. Not for Chilton, though, just so he could know the ending.

"Ayn Rand is a political nut." He found the statement odd because it came out more like a fact, when really he didn't believe it and had just said it to say it.

"Yeah, but nobody could write a forty page monologue the way that she could," Rory said.

"And no one could write an honest paragraph the way Ernest Hemingway could."

"No, see, what you call 'honest' I think I call 'male chauvinism.'"

"Oh please," Jess groaned. "Just because Hemingway didn't use adjectives and pretty words and didn't write happily ever afters doesn't make him macho."

"No, but the women he wrote were so artificial. So stereotyped. He didn't give them any real role other than being the girl to his guy."

"That's because you never saw it from their point of view. You only saw how they affected the men." He held his consciousness down, kept talking, not thinking about what he said, and then he did think, and he tried not to, and he pretended not to care. "Hemingway didn't believe in love, so his characters didn't either. They denied it. He proved that you don't need love to live."

He felt almost embarrassed, like he had revealed too much of himself and needed to take it back before Rory asked about it. But, she didn't ask, didn't assume anything about him by what he said. Instead, she said:

"That's depressing."

"Life's depressing," he stated passively.

Again, she avoided a comment that he wished to retract. "But you make an interesting argument. So, I'll make you a deal: I will give the painful Ernest Hemingway another chance and you will…"

"Pick up a copy of _The Fountainhead_."

"And?" She raised her eyebrows.

"And what?"

"And," she drawled, waited for him to fill in the blank. He didn't, so she finished, "…you'll do the reading log."

Jess smirked at all the ways he could interpret – or misinterpret – how to do the reading log.

"Correctly," Rory added.

"That's worth two Hemingway books."

"Fine," she agreed quickly.

He didn't want the deal; he wanted to honor it. He wanted the deal; he didn't want to honor it. He didn't want anything, yet he did, and he told himself he wouldn't do it while, in the part of his mind that he paid so little attention to but often listened to, he knew he would do it.

"And you'll still have to read The Fountainhead and do the reading log," he told her.

"I'm aware."

"You're torturing yourself."

"A smile price to pay," she said.

The city bus reached their stop. They got off, walked side by side to the construction site. Jess fell back a step, let Rory look around, figure out where they were supposed to go. She looked at him, shrugged, found the nearest worker and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Excuse me," she said.

He let go of his saw, left it in the piece of lumber he had been cutting.

"Hey, you're touching a man with a saw. You don't touch a man with a saw. What are you thinking?"

"I'm sorry," Rory said.

"I could've hurt myself. I could've hurt you. There's a ton of hurt that almost happened here," he told her.

"I really am sorry. I've never been on a job site before. It's nice."

"Okay, where are you two from?"

"Chilton. I'm Ro–"

"Come on Chiltons," he said, leading them into the foundation of the house.

"No, it's Rory. Chilton's my – our – school."

The man turned suddenly, as if he was stressed and they only added to it. "You two got a hammer?"

Jess quickly scanned the site. No hammers, no tools of any kind left out, just a couple spilt nails next to a bag of them, piles of wood and heavy sacks of powdered cement.

"Oh, yes, sir."

Jess looked around, began to wander around curiously. He bumped into the construction worker, grabbed the head of the hammer and nimbly lifted it straight out of his belt.

"Where is it?" the man asked.

Jess turned around, hand dropping the hammer into his back pocket, head still rotating back and forth, seeing without noticing. Rory pulled out a hammer covered in pink feathers and body jewelry. He casually strolled back to her, hands folded behind his back, acted amused at her explanation for the dressed-up hammer.

"And you?" he asked Jess. He pulled out the hammer, held it up for the man to see. The man nodded and gave them routine instructions, pointed to where they could get hard hats and goggles, and left them.

"He left us? Just like that?" Rory asked. "But, I've never built a house before. Have you ever built a house before? Someone has to live in this house. They could have pets or children or breakables."

"Yep," Jess said, picked up a nail, handed it to her.

"And where did you get that hammer? Unless you just happen to carry around a hammer in your pocket all the time."

"What if I do?"

Rory stared, pursed her lips. "Dodger."

"I'll trade it in for my button when we're done," he said flatly. She didn't move. "So, shall we?" he asked, indicating the framework.

Rory held the nail awkwardly on the wood, the hammer even more awkwardly.

"This is my wall."

Rory pulled back. Paris frowned. Jess raised his brows.

"I wouldn't brag about that," he said.

"Oh, and why not?" Paris snapped.

"You didn't leave any room to extend the wall. There's going to be a hole in the corner," Jess spoke slowly, sarcastically. "We're going to have to tear down this side of _your wall_ and redo it."

"Who are you? Bob Vila?"

"To your Tim Taylor," he replied calmly.

Paris turned back to Rory. "So, you traded in Mars for Vulcan. Lovely."

"I'm sorry, Juno," Jess said, without sincerity and with much sarcasm. "Did you want something or are you just feeling territorial today?"

"Yes. I want you to get away from my wall. Go work cement or something. What are you doing here anyway?" she directed at Jess. "Are you trying to get into Harvard?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" Rory asked.

"You're so naïve, Gilmore. When you apply to an Ivy League school, you need more than good grades and test scores to get you in. Every person who applies to Harvard has a perfect GPA and great test scores. It's the extras that put you over the top. The clubs, charities, volunteering. You know.

"Oh, yeah, I know," she said.

"I started volunteering in fourth grade. I handed out cookies at the local children's hospital. By ten, I was leading my first study group. The youngest person in the group was twelve."

"Wow."

"I've been a camp counselor. I organized a senior illiteracy program. I worked a suicide hotline. I manned a runaway center. I've adopted dolphins, taught sign language, trained seeing-eye dogs. Hey! What the hell are you doing?" she screamed at Jess.

He dug the wedge of his hammer into the wood and yanked out a nail.

"Fixing your wall."

Rory pressed on. "But when did you have time to have a life?"

"I'll have a life after I graduate from Harvard. Now if you'll excuse me, the drainage on the south side of this place sucks."

As Paris stomped off, Jess pulled out another nail, cracking and splintering the wood. Rory tried to help, but she couldn't fit the wedge behind the head of the nail. Silently, purposely, Jess grabbed Rory's hammer, adjusted her grip, put his hands over hers and swung it down, caught the head and helped her work it out.

"Thanks," she said.

"Venus," Jess nodded and ignored the rest of her work, ignored the smile she directed at him, which he felt she didn't want him to see anyway, ignored a sudden, inexplicable nervousness, and concentrated on his own task.

-

"I ache," Rory said as she stepped off the bus, her head turned toward Jess.

"You reek," he said behind her, then stopped. "Dean."

Dean stood, scowled at Jess, looked angrily, incredulously, at Rory. "You blew me off to spend the day with him? Rory?"

"It wasn't planned," she said suddenly, desperately, gesturing pointlessly and emphatically. "I just sat down on the bench, and then he sat down next to me, and he tore down Paris' wall, and we got buttons," she added brightly, but with a sense of falseness, as she showed him the button pinned to her overalls.

"Because Jess just can't resist building a house," Dean said, narrowing his eyes at Jess. "Can you?"

"Well–"

"Jess needed the community service hours. That's it," Rory said.

"Fresh out of juvie?" Dean asked him.

"Nope, just heading in. I figure if I do all of my community service now then I'll be set for later."

"Jess," he warned.

"Relax," Jess said. "We built some walls and mixed some cement. They initialed our papers when we were done. So don't get all West Side Story on me, okay?" Then, to Rory, he said, "See ya later," shoved his hands into his pockets and walked off.

Dean bent down to get closer to eye level, for an explanation. "Rory?"

"Jess is going to Chilton."

"What?" It sounded controlled, shocked, angered, perplexed.

Rory didn't know how to answer it, so she swerved around it, began walking home as she talked about concerns that had pestered her all day, had left her uneasy and worried.

"I can't hang out tonight. I'm sorry. I still have thirty five more hours of community service to get done, and apparently I'm ten years behind on my extracurriculars."

"What are you talking about?" Dean asked.

"I'm talking about Paris. She has been accumulating these things since she could walk. I mean, she has a list of good deeds that could bump Mother Teresa off the Harvard list. I've been studying my butt off my whole life and I really thought that that was enough, but then Paris tells me that everyone makes good grades and it's the extras that put you over the top. And I thought that she was messing with me like she always does, but she's right. I mean, it makes total sense."

"What does? You're not making any sense."

"Good grades aren't enough. I need to do things. I need to volunteer. I need to work for charity. I need to help the blind, the orphans – I don't know. I just need to do something."

"Well why don't you get Jess to help you? I'm sure he'd be happy to help you 'help the blind.'"

"Dean," she began.

"No. It's fine. You're blowing me off tonight. For the rest of summer."

Rory stopped walking, wordlessly pleaded with him to understand, not to be dramatic about this. "No. I just need to organize, plan. I need to make a schedule."

"Well don't worry about fitting me into your 'schedule,'" he said.

"What? What are you talking about?" she asked, but then seemed to whiff the dark, underlying sentiment.

"Are you–" She didn't want to ask; she had to ask. "Are you breaking up with me?"

"Well you're obviously too busy with summer school and Harvard and building houses with Jess."

"Dean. That's not fair. This is important…" she said meekly, wished for him to be supportive, knew how good and valid her reasons were and couldn't comprehend why he didn't seem to understand. He always understood.

"More important than me, I guess. So I'll just get out of your way," he said and brushed passed her hurriedly.

Rory went home sullenly, hurt, upset, confused. She wiped at her eyes a few times on the sidewalk. When she opened the door of the house, she started to cry. She softly called for her mom. Lorelai appeared, frowned, and took her into her arms.

Harvard was more important to her than Dean, which only made her cry harder. It was mean and selfish to think like that – wrong, too, she thought – and she didn't want to admit it to anyone, to herself. She thought that they should be equal, but in her mind they weren't. She wondered if Jess would understand, and cried louder because she thought of Jess when she should have been thinking of how miserable she was because of Dean, because it was really everything else but the breakup that made her miserable.

The breakup took all the blame.

-

**Author's Note** – Inspiration for some of the writing and wording comes from reading _The Fountainhead_. Some dialogue was borrowed from "Hammers and Veils." This was a little difficult to write, to pinpoint my perspective on Jess and then delve into his psyche. But it's fun.

Next chapter: Presenting Lorelai Gilmore… (and in the chapter after that Jess will finally appear in school, at Chilton)

And, thank you to all of my reviewers. I really want to answer some of your questions, but I also don't want to take up so much space at the end of a chapter to do it. I just want all of my reviewers and readers to know that I appreciate you, love you, and if you really want a question answered, IM me (on AIM) at NeverRebel or e-mail me (look in my profile for the address).


	5. Tress Tenet Ducks

**Chapter Five** – Tress Tenet Ducks

-

To say that the summer was uneventful would be a lie because, in the town of Stars Hollow, there was always a celebration. However, this summer was dotted with spontaneity and curious happenings outside of the town's usual traditions. During the first month, Rachel left even more unpredictably than her previous departures. Luke seemed indifferent to her desertion, and no one could pity him because of it; Jess, who neglected to communicate with Rachel anything more than a three word, work-related sentence, took her desertion impassively.

Jess failed to resume his original hours at the diner. In fact, he shirked his duties more often and vanished from the town two days a week for almost two months. They saw him disappear late in the morning and reappear late in the afternoon. During those months, citizens of the community reported that he took a bus to Hartford. They were both relieved and jealous to think that he was being a hoodlum in someone else's town.

Rory completed her summer school sessions. She acquired forty hours of community service plus extra hours to begin making up for lost years. Two of her mandatory goodwill undertakings she did with Jess; one was a book club that they organized – she forcefully and he grudgingly – for anyone who wanted to sign up. It lasted an hour; it failed. The other was another building project, a playground for an orphanage, which they contributed to for five hours. The rest of her hours she obtained from Taylor Doose by planning, decorating and participating in the June/July/August festivals and events. He refused to let partake in them and Jess ardently opposed involvement in them.

The new school season approached. Rory worried that Jess wouldn't get enough hours. Subtly she tried to mention opportunities when she was in his vicinity, but he ignored them.

-

"Mom!" Rory called, walking so fast that she was in the kitchen before the door closed, so fast that her thoughts couldn't catch up. "I'm coming out."

"Out of the closet? Honey," she warned, tilted her head.

"Out into society," Rory said.

"I'd hoped for grandchildren, but if you're ready to announce to the world that you're attracted to members of the same sex…"

"No. I went over to grandma's house today. She had her DAR friends over and, um, they were talking about this debutante ball that's being thrown."

"Oh boy," Lorelai exhaled. "I think I would have preferred you coming out of the closet."

"And before I knew it grandma was telling me about how important it is for a person to be properly presented to society. She even gave me pamphlets." Rory held up two booklets.

"'Pamphlets' plural?"

"One for you."

"And she just had these on hand?" Lorelai asked. "Nevermind." She stood up. "I'm getting you out of this. I'll call her."

"No. No, mom, it's okay," Rory said. "It didn't sound that bad. Dresses, flowers, music, cake."

"And the only good thing off that list is the cake," she grumbled.

"C'mon. It's a big deal to her; it's not that important to me. So can we just look at the pamphlets?"

"Oh all right." She reluctantly took one and opened to the first page. "'The Daughters of the Daughters of the American Revolution Debutante Ball – where young girls of good breeding and marriageable age are paraded around in front of young men of similar good breeding so that they might marry one of them and have babies of good breeding.'"

"It says I need a dress," Rory said.

"A psychiatrist."

"Gloves, shoes."

"Straightjacket, padded walls."

"Uh," Rory stumbled over the text. "It, uh, says that your father is supposed to present you at the ceremony."

"Oh. Okay. We can do that."

"No. No big deal. I could get grandpa to do it. Or Taylor. Or maybe the cable guy that was here last week. He looked friendly."

Lorelai got up, wandered to the living room, looked for the phone. "No. You shouldn't feel weird or uncomfortable inviting your father. I will call, I will ask. I'm sure he'll come."

Rory followed her to the couch, still reading. She frowned. "Um, it also says I need an escort."

"I'll be your escort," Lorelai said flippantly as she dialed Chris's number.

"I don't think that's the kind of escort they're talking about."

"Oh. Well, maybe – Ah! Pen! I need a pen."

There were no pens in the living room. Lorelai ran back into the kitchen, found a pen, redialed, and wrote down the new number from the automated voice.

In the living room, Rory stared at the booklet. She focused on the gutter created by the first and second pages, mentally running down a list of people who she could ask to be her "escort" or – translated into its socially offensive synonym – her date. The list was short. The person who would have been at the top had broken up with her. She couldn't ask him, but her other alternative wasn't approachable on this subject either. She didn't have to ask him to hear the sarcastic "no" he would give her or see the sneer that would accompany that answer.

"Okay, missy," Lorelei said cheerily as she flopped down next to Rory, "your father's coming."

"He is?"

"Definitely. Which gives us a fifty-fifty chance. Maybe sixty-forty, since he sounded pretty serious."

"Wow. That must've been some serious seriousness."

"Yes. Now, onto the escort."

Rory looked down at the pamphlet. She began to pick at the edge of the stiff paper.

"Options?"

She had no one else to ask. She had to ask him.

Determined, Rory stood. "I don't know. Ask me later."

She strode into her room, closing the door behind her.

She had a plan.

-

Someone knocked. Not on the apartment door, but on his bedroom door. He continued writing in the composition notebook on his lap, glancing at the book at his side every few words.

The knocker persisted. "Jess?"

Jess flipped the notebook closed and pushed it off his lap, rolled off his bed, stuck the pencil behind his ear, and opened the door. Rory stood with a piece of paper pulled taut between her hands. She looked serious, mature. A detached amusement stirred within him, but his face remained inexpressive.

"I have a proposition for you," she said properly, as a businesswoman, in a tone that lacked all intimacy of friendship and emotion, in a way that he immediately didn't want her to talk to him in.

"Usually the guy is the one to proposition the girl," he said, countering her formal tone with casual crudeness.

"My grandmother invited me to a debutante ball this Saturday. It's important to her and I've agreed to go. However, I need an escort," she said. Jess folded his arms, leaned against the doorframe. "I realize that this isn't your usual thing," she continued impersonally, "but I don't expect you to agree to this for nothing. I've drawn up a contract, and I think you'll find that the terms are fair. If not, you are free to add in your own demands."

She handed him the paper that she held so tightly. It was typed, titled, aligned, indented; if there had been a company seal in the corner, it would have looked like an authentic business document. Jess snatched it from her, leaned against the doorframe, and pretended to read it. He glanced at the numbered list, a list of all she offered him.

"No," he said and held the paper out to her.

"You didn't even read it," she said, still correct, but disappointment floated along the undercurrent.

"Nope, but I'm sure this type of thing is right up bag boy's alley."

He regretted saying it before the sentence was even all the way out of his mouth. He was handing Rory right back to Dean, pushing his chance away, pushing away what he wanted. He couldn't do this, though. He wanted to, but he shouldn't want to. His participation would be more than anyone expected. People would then expect more from him, something he didn't want to feel obligated to offer them.

The altered opinions of him, although undesirable, he could scowl and bear. The humiliation that would come from this ordeal, however, he couldn't.

"I can't ask him. I mean, even if he did agree to go, it'd be… weird. He's–" Her honesty ended with a sudden fall; she continued punctiliously, "He is not an option."

Jess looked back down at the document. As he read the terms he consciously forgot the town, forgot to care what they thought, now and after. It was a complete psychological shutdown. He pulled the pencil out from behind his ear, moved around Rory, brushed arms with her, set the paper down on the kitchen table. He bent over it, crossed out a couple lines. On one number of the list, he paused.

"You can do laundry?"

"Cooking, no. But laundry we are definitely professionals with."

He nodded. At the bottom of the list, he added his own stipulations, standing over the paper in a position that wouldn't allow Rory to read over his shoulder. He felt relief when she didn't try to. He stood and handed the paper back to her, indifferent, blank, because if he wasn't then he wouldn't be able to do this. She read them, and, without hesitation, without worry, without questioning, politely took his pencil and signed her name to the bottom. With a sneer, he also signed the paper. When she saw that he had written "Sucker", she scratched it out and watched him slowly, precisely, sign his actual name.

_On the date of August 4, 2001, I, Jess Mariano, agree to attend the Daughters of the Daughters of the American Revolution Debutante Ball with Lorelai Leigh Gilmore as her escort. I will appear dressed in the attire expected of me, worn the way expected of the attire. I agree to remain from 5 p.m. until the time of Rory Gilmore's departure; I will not leave before this time. I will arrive two hours prior to 5 p.m. on the aforementioned date at the house of Lorelai Gilmore._

_In return for my services, I will receive:_

_1. One new book or c.d. every two weeks until graduation from Chilton (If no preference is made the decision will be left to fancy.)_

_2. One hour of study time on days before a test_

_3. Unlimited access to Rory Gilmore's library of books_

_4. Freshly laundered and ironed uniforms on Monday (to be dropped off at the Gilmore household by 5 p.m. Friday)_

_5. (crossed out) Chilton sweaters, sweatshirts, t-shirts and caps_

_6. A bottle of hair gel every (crossed out) week (written in by Jess) month_

_7. (crossed out) A timetable to balance school and work_

_8. Bus fare until graduation from Chilton_

_9. Lunch money until graduation from Chilton_

_10. (written in by Jess) School supplies – I'll give you the money for them_

_11. (written in by Jess) Computer access_

_12. (written in by Jess) One favor, whenever, wherever_

"Thank you," she said brightly, professional demeanor melting away. "Um, come over tomorrow. We'll go to the mall, get you fitted for a tux because my grandma would probably combust if we rented one. She's paying for it, so don't worry. And shoes, and socks. And a tie."

"Oh jeez. Give it back," he said, holding his hand out for the contract, looking agitated, completely unhappy, but he didn't consider whether or not he really felt either of those feelings, only that he should – that he had to.

"No."

"Hey, if I don't show up tomorrow, just go without me. I'll meet you there. And if for some reason you didn't see me, it was because I didn't find you, not because I didn't show up."

Rory looked at him sternly. "We're leaving at eleven. If you're not there, me and my mom will hunt you down, tie you up and throw you into the back of the Jeep."

He raised an eyebrow, saying seriously, "Kinky."

Her cheeks turned pink and she looked down.

"Um, thanks again, Jess. I, uh, see ya."

She half-waved at him, with the hand that held the document, and left the apartment. Jess returned to his room, kicked the door closed, dropped back onto his bed, resumed his paused task, yet all he could think was that he was an idiot. He felt like an idiot, but at the same time, he felt almost, maybe, eager.

-

In front of Men's Formalwear, he stopped behind Rory. He saw suit jackets tailed and untailed – mostly black, some gray – all hung precisely on racks. He saw dress shirts – white, subtle blue, black, modest green – folded fashionably with stiff plastic tucked into them to keep them unwrinkled. He saw dress pants, both hanging and folded, black, some striped, some gray. Mannequins dressed up in black tuxedos frowned at him behind the glass, greeting him out of forced politeness but not inviting him in.

Black dominated the interior, yet it wasn't depressing. It seemed stoic, as if presenting him with one of the symbols his mind immediately connected to money, proudly flaunting it.

Already Jess felt people staring. They knew he shouldn't even be peering inside, but Rory didn't notice.

He stepped back. "Changed my mind."

"Too late," Rory said. When he continued to back away Rory grabbed the excess fabric at his shoulder and pulled.

"Hey, watch the shirt," he said, shuffling his feet carefully, entering defiantly.

As she marched to the counter, he slipped out of her grasp. He slowly rotated his head around the store and shoved his hands into his pockets. There were a few people in the store, older men, dressed casually. Jess detected a difference between them and him. They belonged and he didn't. Out of place and obstinately quashing the desire to walk out, Jess languidly reached out and ran his hand over a low rack of coats, pretended to look while he made it obvious that he wasn't.

It would have been easier to leave than to stay. He preferred easier.

Rory returned with an employee, suited for business. The man had a clipboard and a flimsy, yellow measuring tape. Jess tried to shut out all feelings of discomfiture and agitation, embarrassment and nervousness. He sifted through them so quickly that they swirled into anger, like a pot on the stove set to high and left to boil over.

"Measure away," Rory commanded, bemused, with a gesture of her hand.

"Step up onto the platform here, please." With a deep glare and two heavy stomps, he did so. As the man measured his legs, his waist, his torso, his shoulders, his arms, Jess scowled down at Rory, whose lips lifted slightly as if she enjoyed watching this. It was an honest enjoyment, void of the cynicism and malicious ill will that he usually suspected of others.

"All right. All done."

Jess stepped down, finding that someone had turned the dial on the stove down – off – and that his anger had cooled. He no longer felt judgmental eyes watching him, waiting for him to leave. He still didn't like being in the store, though.

"You can pick it up Thursday," the man told them.

"Thank you," Rory said, and the employee left.

"Thursday, huh? That cost extra?" Jess tried to tease, but it sounded flat, cold, instead.

"Stop it," she said lightly, but solemnly, as she delved deeper into the store.

"What are we still doing here?"

"Bow tie and gloves. The sooner we find them the sooner we can go."

"Tell you what. _You_ find them, I'm going."

He pointed to the exit, lifted his leg as if he was going to move, but he didn't; he waited for her to protest, and she did. "No, we have to make sure they fit. You kind of have to be here for that," she said. Jess took a calculated step back. "C'mon, five more minutes of this, ten more minutes in a shoe store, and we can skip the sock shopping and go straight to the bookstore." Jess shook his head, inwardly entertained by this, wondering if she would stop him if he tried to leave, wanting her to stop him if he tried. "I saved you from my mom," Rory said. "She tried to come. She had a camera. She was going to take pictures and put them in a scrapbook and blackmail you with them."

"I would have burned them," Jess said, turning his head toward the blue-gray he saw at the frays of his peripheral vision. He headed toward it.

"She would have had doubles," Rory said, following.

Jess picked up a box from a round table stacked with more of the same boxes, a couple of them open and displaying the contents.

"Black bow tie." He tossed her the box, which she caught awkwardly against her chest with both arms. "And there are," he paused, curled his lip, "gloves over there."

"Great!" She bounced over, picked up a pair of gloves linked together by a metal clip, with a piece of plastic and a price tag hanging off it. She held them out to him. Jess stared blankly at her. "Oh boy. You are really making this difficult," Rory said, grabbed his hand, tried to fit a glove onto it only using her left hand.

"It's not going on," he stated.

"And you're not helping."

For a few more moments he let her hold his wrist, his pleasure concealed, and then he snatched the gloves from her and tugged on the one she had been trying to get on his hand.

"Nope, don't fit," he said.

Jess dropped them onto the rectangular table made of a rich-colored wood, glossed with protective laminate: another pointless decoration in a world he couldn't comprehend, wasn't part of, was willingly stepping into for a night. He picked up a medium-sized pair of gloves, slipped one onto his left hand. It stretched over his hand until the tips hit his fingertips and could go no further down his wrist. Quickly he tugged it off and handed them to Rory, saying "here" softly, almost guiltily.

She took the items to the register, handed a credit card to the cashier. Jess waited behind her, hands shoved in his pockets, suddenly placid. They moved on to the shoe store. The mood passed; his sarcasm returned along with his defiant participation. By the time they reached Waldenbooks (the only bookstore in the mall), his calm had plummeted to melancholy and then soared to a forced enjoyment that became truer the longer he browsed with Rory, tossed titles back and forth, read back-cover summaries, collected novels from the shelves to purchase with her grandmother's credit card.

-

"Short end, long end," Christopher said, lifting each respectively under Jess' chin. "Cross, long end behind and up. Make a loop with the short end, long end down. Loop with the long end, bring it through the short loop and then adjust. Got it?"

"Yep," Jess nodded, immediately untying it and yanking it off.

"No one gets it on their first try."

Challenged, Jess tossed it back over his neck, crossed, looped and adjusted the bow tie. From her position on the couch – seated on the middle cushion, her foot against the edge of the coffee table while she painted her toenails – Rory shifted her eyes to the side, smiling, a sense of pride dimly passing through her.

Chris deflated. "Okay, now I'm jealous."

"Ah, but you're the one who gets to dance with Rory," Lorelai said, a book poised on her head, chopsticks between her fingers and a box of Chinese food in her hand. Rory's smile faded slightly, but she refused delivery on the disappointment that unexpectedly knocked. "Unless they think to specify which escort is to dance with the debutante, in which case someone will 'bump' in to Rory, she'll fall, claim injury and be unable to dance. This way, Rory will not be forever shamed. Jess will get to keep what's left of his pride, you'll get to lose what's left of yours…"

"No, I think I lost the rest of my pride doing that stint at the Children of the American Revolution ball."

"Where you wore nothing but a bow tie," Lorelai nodded, smiling fondly.

"A good idea on conception, but the sudden snowstorm instantly dampened the effect."

"Huh. Bow tie would have been the first thing I lost," Jess said, tugging it off again.

"Oh, Jess, planning on providing the entertainment?" Lorelai asked, face deadpan, tone barely holding on to seriousness.

"Oh yeah. Just give me a top hat and a cane and I'll be the Planters Peanut Guy."

"You know, Jess, once you brush your hair you just might be able to pass as a gentleman," Lorelai said thoughtfully. "A gentleman with a very accurate reproduction of the Tommy Lee Jones scowl."

"It's either that or he's going to be mistaken for a waiter," Chris tossed in.

"Maybe Luke'll pay me extra for it," Jess mumbled dryly.

"Oh, now there's the attitude we all love." Lorelai dipped her head and caught the book in her hand.

Rory noted the sarcasm, the way her mom forced it to sound good-natured. Her dislike knitted itself so skillfully into the words that to undo it would mean following every stitch backward until it all unraveled. To undo the blanket of loathing would require concentration, patience and determination on Rory's part. Just seeing Jess involved in this function, learning to tie a bow tie, learning the codes of high society introductions, all willingly and with minimal complaining, had to unweave some part of Lorelai's needlework.

"Whatever. I'm gone. By the way, I'm changing here tomorrow. See ya at three." And he left.

"Maybe if we duct tape his mouth we can pass him off as a gentleman," Lorelai considered.

"Nah," Rory said. "Duct tape is too gaudy. We want subtle-yet-refined."

"Super glue?"

"Now you're talkin'."

-

The next day Jess trudged down the stairs, a gray plastic bag slung over his shoulder, the hanger hooked carelessly by his index finger. He dreaded the stares from the prying town gossips – most of the town being the gossips – but he didn't halt. He threw the curtain out of his way with an unnecessary amount of force, embracing anger over fear, anger that would give him the excuse to snap or rudely ignore as he chose. None of the customers looked up, or looked at him strangely, or looked at him as a prospect for the Stars Hollow Gazette's lead story tomorrow. Some of his tenseness slipped away, taking with it some of his angry visage as he relaxed in the safety of going un-judged.

"Hey, what time are you gonna get back?" Luke called.

Instantly the anger rebuilt itself into a protective shield. "When I get back." He slammed the diner door.

On the street, he couldn't completely loosen up again. He walked quickly, his forehead scrunched, his eyes hunting for judgmental passerby. No one stared too long. No one cared. He felt a modicum of relief.

As he knocked on the door to Lorelai's house he transferred most of his body weight onto one leg and put on a face to greet whoever opened the door with the displeasure they expected to see from him. Rory dressed in everyday clothes, let him into the house.

"My parents are in the bedrooms. You have ten minutes in the bathroom before they invade."

"Hitler and Mussolini?"

"Like you were France."

Jess nodded.

"Upstairs. The door on the right," Rory told his back.

Jess headed up the stairs and locked the bathroom door behind him. He quickly shed his outer garments, pulled out the tuxedo, stepped into the pants, buttoned the shirt. The jacket he set on the counter to put on as late as possible; the bow tie he hung around his neck under the collar. He would wait to tie it too. He kicked off his shoes, dug to the bottom of the bag for his new ones and jerkily knotted them. Lorelai pounded on the door, demanding that he open it. Jess leisurely secured the black cummerbund around his waist, packed his clothes into the bag and rezipped it. He snagged the coat, casually draped it over his arm with the clothes bag, and opened the door. Lorelai clicked the button on her camera before Jess could turn away, flashing him with a bright light.

"Hey, you're not fully dressed yet," she pouted.

"Huzzah," Jess snapped, moving around her.

"Are you seriously leaving your hair like that?"

He whirled around. "What's wrong with it?"

"It sticks up."

"And?"

"That's just it. It defies gravity. Anything that defies gravity is frowned upon in the world you are daring to tread into," she explained as she reached for his wrist. "C'mon. Back into the bathroom."

Jess jerked his hand away, stomped into the bathroom, exasperatedly turned on the faucet, wet his hands, wet his hair. He pushed it all back, flattened, tamed. Lorelai gawked, her mouth open with a grin that escalated Jess's projection of hostility. He went downstairs and dropped onto the couch. He wondered why he had agreed to this ridiculous excursion. The contract seemed like a weak excuse now, but greed was a plausible motive, an acceptable reason. Still, he made himself feel miserable because that was what he should have been, not realizing that his misery required conscious effort because, really, he wanted to do this.

Rory came up next to the arm of the couch. "I can fit a book into my purse, but it has to be small."

"Okay," he said, hitting a note of confusion on the tone scale.

"For you to sneak off and read. Suggestions?"

Jess smiled. "_Old Man and the Sea_."

"Oh, no, I'm sorry, a book I have," she clarified.

"_The Invisible Man_."

"Reading the classics?"

"Rereading. I'm suddenly in the mood for violent and angry," he said.

"Cheery," she remarked and went to her bedroom to retrieve it. She knocked on the door first, though, and Christopher came out, adjusting his tie.

"You know, I don't think I can call you Steve Randle anymore," Chris said.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, you look more like a Soc," he shrugged with a silent, open-mouthed laugh.

Jess rolled his eyes, temporarily disinclined to verbal communication. Rory handed him _The Invisible Man_, saying that he could read it on the way there in the Jeep; he took it then as an excuse to ignore them, flipped to the first page. They waited twenty more minutes for Lorelai, who hopped down the stairs while she put on her heels. Jess followed them to the vehicle, subdued and determined to engross himself in the novel, and climbed into the backseat next to Rory.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rory lean against the armrest, stare out the window. Lorelai chatted, irrelevant palaver that he closed his hearing off to, and he thought he had managed to disappear amongst them until the conversation died and she tried to rejuvenate it with him.

"So, Jess, school starts next week."

Jess continued reading, but the words were no longer coherent sentences.

"Orientation is Thursday morning," she said. As a close-ended statement, Jess decided that it required no acknowledgement from him. Lorelai went on, "Are you and Luke going?"

"Luke is," he admitted reluctantly, with enough bite to temporarily halt the conversation.

After a beat Lorelai asked, "Are you nervous about going to Chilton?"

He rolled his eyes, frustrated. "Nope."

"Excited?"

"Nope."

Lorelai sighed. "Scared? Indifferent? Miserable?"

"I'm going," he said noncommittally, turning the page although he had lost the gist of the paragraph.

"Oh, well, that's good," she said and, a smidgen rankled, added, "Hope you like the uniforms."

Despite the abrupt change in her demeanor that he knew he was responsible for, he pretended he didn't notice, didn't care. As the ride stretched Jess fleetingly considered rectifying the situation, giving her a straight answer, some sort of honest answer, but he couldn't find a reason to do so. So he didn't.

Eventually everyone gave up on trying to coax out some semblance of politeness, humanity, responsibility – whatever it was they expected from him – and left him alone, which was just hunky-dory.

As they turned into the circular entryway, Jess tied his tie quickly and slipped on his dinner jacket. At the entrance of the building, with a banner hung overhead proclaiming the event, a valet greeted them and took the Jeep. Jess scoffed and returned the book to Rory.

An older woman with a clipboard met them at the door, scolding them for arriving late and sending Rory upstairs; Lorelai encouraged her daughter to "sliiide" down the banister. Then the woman turned to Jess and pointed him through a door to the left, underneath the balcony. He jerked the door open and immediately several different, expensive smells attacked his nose, burning all the way through to the back of his tongue. Two wooden benches placed parallel on the carpet held several bags of clothes, shoes and hangers. A couple of the boys were shirtless, one pantless; one tied, untied, then retied his bow tie in front of the only full length mirror in the room, and continued to repeat the process, unsatisfied with the outcome of each. As Jess backpedaled, a balding older man approached him.

"Which debutante are you escorting?" he asked.

He forced his legs still. "Uh, Lorelai Gilmore."

The man scanned the list and checked off something with his pencil.

"You have an hour and a half to get ready. The bathroom is through those doors," he said, carelessly pointing behind him with the eraser end of his pencil. "Don't fight over the sinks."

Jess shot him a half confused, half mortified look as the old man moved on to address the entire room, telling the young men to put their belongings against the wall and not on the benches. Jess moved quickly across the room and into what he expected to be an empty bathroom. Instead, three escorts crowded the small space around the sinks, each in an undershirt, each shaving in front of one of the three mirrors. Jess turned and left the bathroom, left the dressing room, and ended up in the ballroom, wandering uncertainly.

The room was extravagant, decorated with tender flowers and elegant decorations. Jess looked for a corner out of the way where he could vanish until the ceremony began. What he found was the bar, which he cut diagonally across the ballroom to reach.

"Beer," he said naturally, having learned not to look too guilty or too confident when asking.

"ID?" the bartender asked.

"Tequila?"

"ID?" he repeated.

"Vodka?" he asked, as if he would get the alcohol if he picked the right drink.

"Hey, Jess, making friends?" Lorelai smiled and turned her head to the bartender, "Martini."

Jess rolled over to lean back against the counter, elbows supporting him. Lorelai mimicked his pose and took a sip of her drink. He narrowed his eyes, staring ahead.

"Refreshing?"

"Very," she nodded.

He exhaled loudly through his nose.

"So, any particular reason that you were out here trying to sneak booze?"

"Yep."

"Which was?" she drawled patiently.

"Tastes better than all the Polo and Axe I inhaled," he shrugged, stubbornly refusing to look at her.

"Ah," she nodded. "Oh, special delivery from Rory." She opened the handbag she carried and pulled out _The Invisible Man_, standing shoulder to shoulder with him as she slipped it to him in a conspiring manner. "Slip it into your coat pocket and you just might make it through the night without liquor. Unless you run into my parents."

He took the book, dramatizing his reluctance to take it from her to cover up his want of it. He stuffed it into his inner pocket and pushed off the counter, heading back to the dressing room.

"Hey, Jess, one more thing," Lorelai called.

He turned around. The camera flashed him for the second time that day, leaving a greenish-purple spot in his vision. His scowl deepened and he stormed off, bending an arm behind his back and extending a middle finger for Lorelai to notice or not.

For the next hour he sat on the edge of one of the benches in the dressing room, hunched over the novel, steadily ignoring the idle chat the guys had going behind him. Jess blatantly ignored their pointed comments, aimed at his appearance, his anti-social inclination, his pedantic pastime. At five thirty the old man crowded the escorts together to deliver a speech on the importance of the event, the itinerary of the evening and threatened to personally throw out anyone he caught drinking or smoking. Jess read through the entire speech. At five forty-five, they lined up according to the order in which their corresponding debutantes were to be presented. Jess came last in line; he didn't question it. The old man finally noticed Jess's negligence and specifically told him to put his "damn book away."

They heard a somewhat muffled version of a speech, polite laughter interspersed. Jess's fingers itched for a cigarette to occupy his hands. By six o'clock the line moved, but only one person at a time. When he finally reached the doorway he peeked around the corner, watched a debutante and an escort loop arms and walk down a short aisle together. The old man ushered him out next and he obediently strolled out onto the red carpet, scouring the accumulation of upper class bodies. He stood loosely, opposite the rigidity he had seen from the other escort, and met some of the eyes in the crowd, daring them to question his presence there.

"Lorelai Gilmore, daughter of Christopher Hayden and Lorelai Gilmore."

He watched as her father guided her down the stairs and kissed her hand. Jess imperceptibly shook his head, making mental lists of all the various books, plots and characters Rory reminded him of in the dress, in the setting. He held out his elbow for her.

"You will pay for the rest of your life," he whispered to her.

However, Rory didn't acknowledge him. She concentrated on the few steps she had left to take and then distractedly floated away from him. For a moment, he watched with a removed horror as Rory partook in an embarrassing fan dance, but then he recognized his opportunity to get away. Jess slipped out of the ballroom and into the darker reception room where he stuffed himself into the corner of a cushioned couch.

The disapproving stares people flung at him intermittently throughout the night he secretly relished, for the same reason a rebel deliberately defies the law and enters a No Trespassing zone.

Symphonic music waded out to him as he took out Rory's book, intolerable in its volume and the way the notes reverberated through the hollow of the rooms, but which dulled into the background of his hearing as he read. About forty pages later Rory stuck her head into the room, smiled when she spotted him, and sat down next to him.

"So what part are you at?"

"The brawl. He just stripped."

"Invisible clothes might have been a perk for him."

"Maybe," he agreed.

Lorelai and Christopher entered the reception hall, announced that they had Rory's clothes and that "enough time has passed for us to escape without looking suspicious."

In the Jeep it was too dark to read, so Jess grabbed the handbag Rory had put in the seat between them, stuck the book into it. He looked up; Rory chatted with her parents, her attention on them. He carefully plucked the camera from the purse and slipped it into his pocket. Jess lolled his head back on the seat and pretended to rest.

"So did you know that you're considered a hot dad?" Rory asked Chris.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, Libby says it's too bad you're not my step dad, otherwise I could steal you away from mom."

"That Libby's got a good life ahead of her," Chris said.

Lorelai parked the Jeep outside of Luke's, saying, "I need a burger."

"Me too," Rory said, getting out quickly.

Jess grabbed his bag of clothing from the back, slid out of the car, shedding his coat and bow tie completely. He hurried upstairs, past Luke, and ripped off the tuxedo, replacing it with the most offensive shirt he had in his closet and the jeans and shoes he wore over to the house earlier. He came back downstairs, where Rory and Lorelai had already been served a late dinner.

"You changed fast," Luke noted.

Jess lifted the plastic lid and retrieved a pair of donuts.

"Oh yeah," he said, bit into a donut as he leaned forward on the counter, "I'm a regular Speedy Gonzalez."

"Did you have fun?" Luke asked.

"You know how they say there's no such thing as a stupid question?"

"Shut up."

"Well apparently they do exist," he finished anyway, taking another bite.

"Oh, Luke!" Lorelai said suddenly. "Do you want me to get you copies?"

"Of what?"

"Of the pictures I took of Jess in a tux."

Jess smirked and headed upstairs with his food, glancing over at Rory as he turned. She missed it.

The evening hadn't been the humiliating torment he expected; it hadn't been as big of a deal as he imagined. Except for the live music, it had been almost bearable.

-

**Author's Note** – It's finally out. Sorry it took so long. This chapter was not easy. But, hopefully, as I no longer have a research paper hovering over me, I should be able to belt out the next chapter soon.

Thank you, my readers and reviewers, for waiting patiently! I absolute adore and love all of you!

Thank you to Arianna555, one of my beta-readers, who catches all my stupid blunders. Like spelling Lorelai's name with an 'e' instead of an 'a.'

And thank you to Cadenza at Midnight, my other beta-reader, who pointed out idiosyncrasies, grammatical errors and who made wonderful suggestions on how to improve sentences and paragraphs.

Next chapter: Finally, Jess goes to Chilton.


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